Northlight (43 page)

Maybe there was. Ay Mother, maybe you've been listening to me, too, all these years.

The priest set the bowl in front of Esmelda. She dipped her hand into the water. The dotted doubled circle incised on her ring gleamed as she let the drops fall on the roots of the tiny tree.

The bowl passed then to an older man with a fancy medallion of copper and gold — Hobart, the Senate Presidio. Then to the red-haired medician and a stern-faced man I recognized as the Senior Judge. Then to Montborne. He too dipped his fingers into the water and sprinkled it on the tree. His face, with that too-smooth skin, was intent and calm. Did he, like the bald priest, believe? Was I wrong about him, holding a grudge against a man who was no longer an enemy?

The other Council members performed the ritual and returned the silver bowl to the priest. He signaled that everything had been done right. The Inner Council sat down in their padded armchairs at the table and the rest of us in the wooden seats behind. Terris readied his notebook and pen, still officially Esmelda's adjutant. I almost laughed aloud that Terris, who'd stood in the Northlight and taken me and Montborne to hell and back, should now be sitting here like a schoolboy writing down his lessons. What he had done — what he had seen — these things couldn't be taken out of him.

As Esmelda rose, I sensed a subtle change in the room, like the shift in a dusty steppe sky before a twister breaks. I've never been one for listening to speeches, and I didn't now, not much. Most of my attention centered on Montborne and his men, the two officers standing behind him and others by the doors and the stairs to the gallery.

Gradually my focus shifted back to Esmelda's speech. She'd finished with her opening comments — boring wishcrap about Laurea's long and honorable traditions. She sounded just like a scholar, and I reminded myself she'd once represented the University on Pateros's Inner Council.

Montborne's expression didn't change as he listened, just the tightness around his eyes. His gaze flickered to Orelia, sitting on the far side of Esmelda in her black uniform. She kept glancing from Esmelda to Montborne, looking more unhappy all the time. I wondered what Montborne had told her. She wasn't a likely ally. Her priority would be keeping order in the city. I wondered how much one Ranger could do against Montborne's and Orelia's people together.

I couldn't put my finger on what made me so twitchy. I used to be able to feel out a place, to pick the breaker with my eyes closed, but now everything seemed all jumbled and twisted.

All the while, Montborne watched Esmelda like a hunting snake.

If she felt his eyes on her, she gave no sign. I couldn't concentrate any more on what she was saying — something about turning Pateros's dreams into reality. Maybe leading up to convincing these people that bringing Jakon here was Pateros's idea.

Then Montborne was on his feet, shouting, punctuating the air with sharp gestures. For a confused moment, I couldn't make out what either he or Esmelda were saying.

“It's time to tell the truth about Pateros!” Montborne cried. “Not about his dreams but about his death!”

“Out of order!” A Senator in the front row, a white-hair with a pinched mouth, stood up, waving one skinny arm. “Out of order!” His voice was lost in the sudden outcry.

“What about Pateros's death?” someone else shouted.

“Shut up and let him speak!”

Silently I cursed Esmelda for how easily she'd allowed him to seize the advantage. Maybe she was too old to face him down after all, too slow, too weak —

“General Montborne, I fear my colleague is correct. You are indeed out of order.” With a gesture and a few calm words, Esmelda took the center once more. The rumbling subsided. Senators leaned forward in their seats, and behind them, spectators watched with open mouths.

“However,” she went on, “these extraordinary times demand flexibility as well as initiative. Each new point of view can, in its own way, add to our resources. If you have some special insight to share with us, pray continue.”

I saw now that she'd anticipated this move of his. She was giving him room to hang himself, certain that she could counter anything he brought up. But she was taking a calculated risk with Montborne. She might know him here in the city, but she hadn't fought with him through the Brassa Hills. He wasn't called
Butcher
for nothing. I didn't like the feel of this at all.

“It was Pateros, with his courage and vision, who led us to victory at Brassaford, who held back the norther horde and kept our homes and families safe.” Montborne stepped forward, gesturing to the room. “It was Pateros who sought to forge a new future for our nation — a future of strength and freedom from fear.”

Montborne knew how to work the crowd, that was sure. I could imagine him calling out battlefield orders in those same ringing tones. I bet the audience could, too. He used everything — his powerful speaking voice, his military bearing, the shock of the moment — to his advantage. He had everyone's attention as surely as if he held them in his outstretched hand.

“But Pateros was cut down before those dreams could become reality, murdered in the center of this great city — in plain day — by the most treacherous villainy. But not...”

The room had gone dead silent now, the spectators craning forward to catch his every word. Even the skinny old Senator who'd challenged him sat rapt.

“...not by the isolated act of a madman or a disgruntled trader, as some would have us believe. By the most vile and cunning conspiracy, one that reaches from the barbaric north right into the heart of our oldest and most trusted institutions.”

A mixture of dismay and incredulity rippled through the crowd. Their whispers sounded like the far-off rustling of bloodbat wings.

“People of Laurea, Senators and citizens, hear me! I have discovered evidence — undeniable, incontrovertible proof of this very conspiracy!”

The audience surged and muttered, their cries blending into a dull roar. I remembered the crowd on the day of the Funeral Riot — the many-headed enemy. The City Guards moved forward, positioned to intercept any movement from the audience, but Orelia held them back with a signal. They'd be no help if things got too tight. For right now, we — Terris and I — were down here and the crowd was up there, and we had a precious little space between us. Not even a pea-brained twitterbat would call that an advantage.

On a signal from Montborne, a City Guard marched down a side aisle and up to the table. Had Montborne somehow gotten Orelia to do his dirty work for him? The Guard wore a patch over one eye and carried two long, slender leather-wrapped bundles.

I didn't like the look of this at all. Neither, apparently, did the rest of the Inner Council. A few of the Senators rose to their feet in protest. At my side, Terris turned pale.

The one-eyed Guard unwrapped the two bundles and laid them on the table in front of the general. I did not need to look to know what they were. One of them had an official-looking card tied to it.

Montborne picked up the tagged dagger. With a dramatic flourish, he lifted it overhead, the slender blade catching the light, and laid on the oval table. “This is the norther dagger that killed Pateros!

“And this — ” he picked up the second blade and held it high, with exactly the same gesture. If I'd blinked, I wouldn't have known it was different except for the tag fluttering like a rock-dove pinion. The crowd held its breath as he set the second dagger down.

“Unbelievable as it sounds, yesterday this
exact duplicate
was smuggled into Laureal City — ”

The audience rumbled like an avalanche about to bust loose. Montborne held them back with a gesture.

“ — and discovered, hidden...
in the possession of that man!
”

He whirled and pointed straight at Terris.

Montborne's voice thundered above the general outcry. “I accuse Terricel sen'Laurea, who just yesterday returned from a secret mission to our norther borders.”

Esmelda stood motionless, as she had through Montborne's entire speech, but now the Councillor in the fancy neck chain pushed forward and gestured for order. Terris tensed, ready for action. I grabbed his shoulder and held him firm. Anything he said would only make things worse. It was only one small step to ask
Who sent Terris north?
Montborne meant to bring Esmelda down as well, or else tie all Laurea into knots trying. By the time things got sorted out, he aimed to be in control, and no one would remember that Esmelda had also made accusations against him.

“These allegations are outrageous!” cried Hobart, the fancy-chained Councillor. “Outrageous and monstrous!”

“But if they're true?” demanded Orelia, rising and pounding the table so that water splashed from the silver ritual bowl.
“What if they're true?”

Ah, so that was how Montborne had gotten to her.

“
Truth?
You want the truth?” Quick as a striking snake, Esmelda seized the opening. Any other time, the old dragon might have gotten the room back under her control. The Inner Council would have listened, as well as half the Senators. I caught the flashes of unguarded feeling on their faces, fear and suspicion warring with the bone-deep need to believe in her. But the crowd at the back and up on the balconies, the many-headed monster, wavered on the very edge of riot.

“Truth is not something to be determined by a popularity contest.” Esmelda's voice sliced through the uneasy murmurs. “Montborne has raised some very serious charges, charges that bear on the very heart and future of our nation. These charges merit the most thorough and careful investigation. How can we possibly do them justice here, bandying them about like a pack of irresponsible playground insults?”

A few people in the front rows sat down again. A Senator in the front row wiped his florid cheeks with a handkerchief, as if the sudden reversal was too much for him.

“These allegations will be heard in the proper time and setting,” Esmelda went on, “
as well as
evidence that the weapons produced by Montborne were manufactured right here in Laureal City — in a secret military facility — under the orders of General Montborne himself.”

“Impossible!” Montborne shot back, still brandishing the second dagger. “Any fool can see these are
norther
daggers!”

“If the distinguished general will kindly —” Hobart, the Senate Presidio, tried again.

Esmelda made a slashing gesture with her hands. Suddenly the doors under the spectators' balconies flew open. Head high, Avi strode down the wide central aisle, Jakon and Grissem only a pace behind her. In their quilted vests and elkskins, their hair like spun gold, faces stern, they seemed proud and strange but not, as Montborne said, savage. I'd fought as hard as anybody at Brassaford, I'd spilled as much blood, but I knew now what
savage
really was.

The entire chamber went wild — people screaming, jumping up and waving their arms, ushers vainly trying to calm them, Senators and Councillors calling for order, the priest chanting, Montborne's men looking confused and astonished, some of them unnerved — the whole mess worse than a barnfowl coop after a raptor bat has just swooped in, and twice as brainless. A bunch of spectators rushed for the doors, but Orelia motioned her people forward. They moved quickly to hold back the worst of the panic. Me, I was on my feet with one hand on my long-knife hilt and the other on Terris's shoulder, grimly counting how many throats I'd have to cut to get him out of there alive.

In front of the oval Inner Council table, Esmelda waited, still as a carven statue. The two northers had turned round to face the audience, Avi between them. They stood, legs apart, balanced lightly on the balls of their feet, arms folded across their chests. It was too bad, I thought, that Jakon couldn't dance for the crowd — then they'd really sit up and notice.

How it happened, I didn't know — whether it was something Esmelda did or the strength of her presence or the northers' inhuman calm, or maybe just plain curiosity winning out over batshit stupidity, but the room grew quiet again. People cleared the aisles and sat down, some still pointing and whispering to their neighbors, others hushing them up. Montborne glanced around — he knew the moment had gone to Esmelda. Behind that waxy-smooth face, I sensed him juggling for another opening, trying to outguess what she'd try next.

Esmelda's voice was intense, but clear and low, as if she had no need to shout or make dramatic gestures. It was enough to talk as she did about desperate times, about hope and dreams. She was no Pateros, even I saw that. Pateros could take someone like me and make me think I could do great things — Esmelda made these people think
she
could. For this time and place, though, it was enough.

If Avi could do the same thing, she could also sign that treaty with Jakon's people, marry him, and bear a half-norther heir to succeed her as Guardian. Maybe there was a chance for peace with the north after all.

After a moment or two, I caught the change in the faces of the crowd. Most of them were children when Esmelda stood out there on the plaza and the rains came down to put out the foundry fires and the plague ended. Yet they seemed to somehow remember, as if that history were bred into their blood.

As if to underscore the mystery of Jakon and Grissem, she began by reminding the audience of the long history of conflict between Laurea and the north. Times I'd never heard of, not being a scholar, things that happened hundreds of years ago. And Brassaford. Ah yes, these people remembered Brassaford. A murmur passed through the room like a gust of bitter wind and then as quickly died down. If Jakon or Grissem felt it, they gave no outward sign.

“And so, we come to the present,” Esmelda said. “To here and now. To today.”

A few people in the balconies grumbled, impatient for answers to the questions Montborne had raised. The Senators, who knew the rhythms of official speech, settled down to listen. Orelia and some of the Inner Council members leaned forward expectantly.